A to Z Mussings
by Sunset
Summary: Finished
1. A to D

**Absolution**

 It never comes easy, but when it does, it happens all at once, a sudden release of pressure that's at once terrifying and exhilarating. And he can feel it approaching, a gurgling in the pit of his stomach, the anticipation adding to the weight, making the relief all the sweeter. It doesn't happen with every case, only those where he feels he's done the most good, put away the worst of the bad guys. Most of them add to the pressure; Nicole, she added to it. Like a dump truck on a compost pile she added to it. The worst is when someone else dies because of him. Either he didn't piece it together soon enough, leaving a killer loose and unworried, or those few times when he let his personal feelings get in his way, blurring that line no cop was ever supposed to cross. Those were the worst, and took the longest, but they were also the sweetest release when it finally arrived. Absolution. When the universe wipes the slate clean and evens the score once again. God, Fate, Destiny, Providence, take your pick, winks, nods and says Ok, Keep going. Absolution. Forgiveness of sins. Forgiveness of self. 

**Beauty**

It's not that she had never thought about it, its that she didn't ever think _much_ about it. A fleeting emptiness of her arms once in a while. Her biological clock ticking only in the late hours of her birthday, when she lay in the dark, trying to sleep. She'd heard about the bond between mother and child, and certainly had one with her own mother, but the immensity of it had escaped her. She had been no more than an incubator, a nest. She shared no more DNA with this child than she did with her brothers' daughter, and yet she saw a beauty in this baby that she hadn't seen anywhere before, one of innocence, of a life yet to be lived and all the possibilities it held. A beauty of a miracle itself. 

**Creativity**

A quiet office, a silent phone, two packs of playing cards. Stand two cards together, balancing them against each other and you have a couple of walls. A third card, a steady hand, and you have the attention of your bored partner sitting across from you. Together you build and stack, hold your breaths, work as a team, each knowing what the other is about to do. No talking, only muttered sounds; relief, tension, an occasional embarrassed giggle. The second pack of cards gets opened; the house takes up half a desk and is threatening to rise above Eames head. A few of your co-workers come in, and plop down by your desk giving the two of you an audience and cheers of encouragement with each new card. The muttered noises turn into tips and good-hearted picking at one another. The audience grows with the change of shift. The last card is held up for inspection and approval with great flamboyance and is met by hooting and applause. The room holds its breath as it is placed on the top, a tiara for the structure. A small quiver and the house is still, and standing. Cheers arise and you look at your partner grinning, just as you flick your finger at the bottom row of cards, collapsing the whole thing. 

**Dream**

Colors billow about like quilted clouds. He reaches out grabbing at red, but it's to fast for him. Yellow jumps over and hops into his palm for just a moment before it takes off again. Somewhere, an elephant trumpets, the sound echoing with in the colors, bouncing off one to another. Purple scoots up and tickles his nose. Suddenly, in the blink of an eye he is standing in the middle of a track field. The familiar referee blows a whistle and the colors line up on the track. A gun is raised, pointed at the sky, and even though he sees it, knows it's going to fire, he is frightened when it goes off. The colors whip around the track, bumping into each other. They begin to take shapes, purple becomes a hurricane, then a tornado winding around itself as it moves down the track. Yellow forms itself into a canary, flying to him, swirling around his head, deftly avoiding his swats before it flies back rejoining the race. Red becomes a ribbon, twisting and turning, making a circle in the air, then a bow; it formed itself into a heart for just a split second. Around and around they went, each color vying for his attention, the ref doing her best to quiet the colors, calm him. Around and around, each lap the colors getting faster and more desperate. Each lap the ref had less and less of an effect on him. He spun in circles, looking for the finish line that wasn't there.  


	2. E to H

**E-Mail**

Three thirty in the afternoon. It should be coming anytime now, she was like clock work. School gets out at three, she'd screw around with her friends on the way home, grab a soda from the fridge, maybe a snack, then sit down at the family pc and e-mail her father that she was home. She'd started it one day, hadn't been told to do it, she just did. He'd answered her, a short note that he'd hoped didn't sound to baffled, and she'd responded quickly, telling him about her day. Thus began a secret ritual between them that he enjoyed and looked forward to so much he made sure he was in his office at three thirty every day. She enjoyed the accounts he'd tell her about his detectives, though he never went into much detail about the crimes they investigated. He'd been a patrolman when she was born and when he made detective, then captain, he'd promised himself and his wife that the only work he'd bring home with him was paperwork. But he told her what he could in those emails between father and daughter, the people he worked with becoming characters of a living soap opera to her. He'd learned that she wrote much more than she'd ever come out and tell him, and he liked that. Liked that she choose him to confide in. 

**Failure**

Never an option. Never had been. Never will be. When he was offered the position, even as he grabbed it up, he thought only of the promotion in status, the chance to do real work, put real bad guys away and not just low priced hookers and bad car thieves. What didn't occur to him was that headline-grabbing criminals produced headline trials. And verdicts. He tried his best to avoid the phone calls that would come after a decision against him. Sometimes the phone on his desk would be ringing as he walked through the office door. Answer it, don't answer it, the lecture would come, either now or tomorrow. It had always been the same sermon, different words were used at different times, but they were all the same. All had the same meaning: Win. Simply that: win. The most memorable lines rang though his head at odd times, sometimes sounding off in his dreams. _No son of mine loses. Where was your head boy? Failure is not an option. _ Failure is not an option.That one became his own personal mantra, chanting it to himself as he jogged. So, he became a DA, prosecuting the really bad ones, and sometimes he lost. Fact of life, sometimes you loose. And the phone in his office would ring. 

**Gossip**

She'd never have believed it if she hadn't heard it, hadn't participated in it. Her partner, big burly, intellectual cop, was a gossip. He may use long words, analyzed and explained every action and reaction of the people involved with the detachment of a psychiatrist, but a gossip nonetheless. Logic told her it was his way of keeping his brain going in between cases, and sometimes a way of distracting himself while deeper parts of his brain concentrated on a witness' statement or a suspect's actions. But she had suspicions that this inclination of his came out of the habit of telling his mother stories of the neighborhood, news of the goings on of the world outside her bedroom window. She also thought it was his own way of temporally hiding from the facts of his own life, his way of evading reality. At the times he would begin his chatter, be it about celebrity or co-worker, she'd mentally shrug and go along. 

**Harvest**

If he had to choose a word to describe it, he would run down a list of all the words in his head, both English and otherwise, picking out one, only to toss it back, finally coming up with harvest. If you think about it, it is quite a bit like that. A word spoken by a suspect plants itself in his subconscious; watered by a witness' statement, have light shine upon it from his own knowledge, until there it is, fully-grown, perfectly clear and ready for harvest. 


	3. I to P

**Interest**

Sometimes she has to feign interest. There are days he gets something stuck in his craw, and doesn't let go. He'll take a subject, no matter how inane, hold it tight in his jaws, shaking it like a dog with a rag doll. His partners before, she knew, always took it the wrong way; they thought he was preaching, flaunting his intellect. It wasn't. What it was, was his way of sharing his knowledge, his enthusiasm. She knew he couldn't fathom the idea that something he thought that interesting could be something she could not give a damn about. Sometimes she can change the subject, or calm his tirade into something controllable. And then there were times that she didn't try either. Mentally exhausted, emotionally spent, she simply let him go while she would inject utterances of agreement, conversational noises she hoped popped up in the right places. She feigned interest. 

**Judgment**

Every one has a past and something within that past that they'd like to keep buried within themselves. Sometimes he feels like a fraud. A hypocrite. Bending the laws of the land, finding the nuances within the spirit of the law, when he couldn't succeed by the letter of the law. Playing chess against the justice system, witnesses, victims, families, his pawns. Here he was, a semi-prominent place within the office that represented, protected even, the citizens of the largest city in the country maybe even the world, and sometimes he felt like a jackass. Secrets don't lie still.

**Kings**

It was the beheadings that intrigued him at first; he'll admit that to himself, if no one else. And as he began to read and learn more, the exploits of these men fascinated him to the point of obsession. He cut a sword out of thick cardboard, wore a worn towel around his neck as a cape and an upside down bowl on his head for a crown. Jumping and jousting, he would take on anything that dared cross his path, from a stray neighborhood cat to his own shadow. Thrusting his sword tip he'd call out 'take that' as he climbed the back stairs, fighting off the Black Knight as he made his way to the maiden above. **Love** It confuses him. He loves his mother, and not just because he's supposed to, but because she has a wonderful imagination, and a wicked sense of humor. But he also hates her, just a little; it's her fault everyone else he's ever loved is now gone from him. His father left, he couldn't handle the responsibility of two boys and a sick wife. His brother is as gone as he can be, living in Greece, staying away, hiding. Camille. He loved Camille deeply, but she couldn't cope with the time commitment his mother needed from him, so she too was gone. He loves his mother, but she drives all other love away, and it confuses him. 

**Manic**

To and fro. Up down happy sad. Sit stand walk run. Pace. Back and forth. Pace. Always moving, high pitched, wide open. Imagine you're five. Imagine thinking, assuming, that this was what life was. Imagine your mother waking you up and pulling you out of bed at three on a frozen December morning so you could look at the fireworks. Only you didn't see any. She'd point toward the sky, jabbing her finger hard as she clutched your shoulder with her other hand, trying to force you see what she saw. And somehow you knew her only saving grace was when you lied and said you saw them too. Relief would flood over her face, her grip on your shoulder loosened; the pointing, jabbing finger came down, dropping dully at her side. Did she know you were lying? Was that not relief you saw in her delicate features, but resignation? Were you her last hope of being sane? Then, suddenly she was scolding you for being out of bed and outside in your bare feet. Again she'd clutch at your shoulder, fingertips digging into your flesh, leaving bruises you'd find the next day, as she steered you back into bed. She couldn't even hear your please over her own rants. You finally fall into a disturbed, nightmare filled sleep, only to be awoken again by screams. High pitched, seeming like they would never stop, screams. Glass shatters, dull tings of metal tell you she's throwing pots and pans against the walls. She starts to sob, and you make your way downstairs and she's on the kitchen floor, her body quaking with the sobs. You walk around her, toward the broom, and she grabs your hand. Her hair is wild and is sticking to her face in a couple of places. She snuffles and licks her lips. You try not to meet her eyes, but you fail. And you can see the sane part of her, the one that gets smaller every day. You can see that she knows she's loosing. 

**N**

That word. As often as he's heard it, it still catches him by surprise. It doesn't shock him that a cab driver will pass him and his three piece, going to court, suit to stop for a white man wearing sweats and a torn tee shirt half a block down. That doesn't surprise him. Neither does a waitress who talks to his white lunch companion first, and doesn't even make eye contact with him when he orders. He knows the cab driver and the waitress are thinking that word, but when someone comes out and says it. . . .that's real hatred, and that is what astonishes him; all that hatred from someone he doesn't even know. 

**Optimism**

She has hope. Hope that one day the phone won't ring, and no one will die from anything but old age. She has hope that cures can be found, and stress will cease to exist. She believes that one day every traffic light on her way to work will be green. She sees a future for herself that is full of love and passion, motherhood, friendships, backyard bar-b-q's and summer vacations. She has hope. 

**Poetry**

He considers himself a poet, bet you didn't know it. Doodling down words and phrases that appeal, not knowing what emotions they might reveal. Coming up with rhyme schemes, setting the pace, while at the same time solving a case. When his own words fail, and the bad guy's in jail, he'll sit down to dine, and read is favorite poet, daf9. 


	4. Q to Z

**Quarter**

Consider how a life can be altered by a quarter. A high school senior, near the top of his class, can't decide between the two universities he's been accepted to. He weighs pros against cons, and in the end, flips a quarter to make the decision for him. Fall comes, and he leaves his parents and his bedroom behind him. The winning campus is a mass of confusion, people milling in groups, or sprinting from one place to another. Until that day, that very moment, he hadn't believed in love at first site, until he saw the site of her. Deeply, passionately in love, in just an instant. He follows her, doesn't know where, doesn't even know her name, but still he follows, and finds himself in a lecture hall sitting behind her. As the professor begins, words and phrases invade his subconscious and he finds himself torn between the lecture and the sleek hair of the woman in front of him. Slowly the talk wins him over, and he finds himself enthralled by the word of the law. An hour later, with the lecture over, he has two new passions, the woman and the law. He changes majors, learns the woman's name and begins to pursue each with fervor he'd never felt before. He discovers ins and outs of tort reform and which flowers are her favorites. Several years later, he has won each. A law degree in one hand, a wedding ring on the other. A few more years and he has a good job, a family and a life he adores. All because of a quarter.

**Relaxation**

A cruelly cold day. A broken down subway and traffic gridlock. Uncooperative witness', hostile suspects, pissy deceives. He opens his front door to a strangely silent house. A note on the table tells him his wife and daughters are off shopping, his dinner is in the oven. The first smile of the day reaches his lips and grows wider as he heads to the master bedroom and the hot shower that he's been craving since he first stepped outside the front door that morning. Steam sinks into his skin, his muscles surrender. After, he builds a fire, pulls his dinner out of the oven and sinks into his Lazy-boy with his feet up. 

**Summer**

She likes it when it's hot. She likes the heat sinking into her, likes it when her skin is hot to the touch, the sensation of steam between her body and her clothes. She likes the imagery of the heat rising off the pavement, giving everything a magical look, and people mingle in the streets, where it's mildly cooler than their stuffy apartments; she likes the crowds and the interaction of the cultures and styles. She watches the children running through an open fire hydrant, the screams of laughter and relief are music to her. 

**Truth**

It's such a simple thing, and the hardest to attain. It is what that everyone says they want, and no one wants to hear. Sometimes he has to drag it out, as if it were a living thing, as if it were a fetus, and he the doctor, jerking it out into the world amid shrieks of torture. Sometimes he has to trick it out, like dangling a carrot, coaxing it out into the light of day. Always, it has to be held up, shown off; have a spotlight shone on it. Always it has to be thrust into the face of the one who won't believe it. It has been his lifetime prey, and he is a master hunter. 

**Unicorns**

She still has a box full of them. Remnants of childhood, reminders of a simpler life. From time to time, she'll pull the box down from the top of her closet, opening the cardboard flaps, the scent of them reaching her first, musty, in need of sunshine and air, tinged with the scent of a heady perfume worn years ago. Taking a stuffed one in her arms, she reaches out to trace the horn of another with a finger. A music box, a present from her father. She twists the base and closes her eyes, humming the tune quietly to herself. She fills her mind with a world where all possibilities still exist. A world, not only where magic is the norm and unicorns are possible, but a world where murder is undefined. 

**Vices**

Crumpled cigarettes lay bent and broken in the ashtray. Wine bottles, empty and half empty rest where they landed on the carpet after being kicked over by rushing feet. He feels her move beside him, the bed sags beneath her weight, then pops back up again as she stands. Her bare feet shuffle against the carpet and he can feel her shadow pass over him. He opens his eyes to look at her, at the same time she pulls back the thick drapes and early sunlight rushes into the room and into his eyes, he shuts them quickly with a groan. She giggles at him and he tries to remember what her name is. 

**War**

He's participated in them before, on foreign shores, in his childhood home, within himself. He sees wars between neighbors, strangers, families. He's studied wars of history, can narrate battles and their effects, from every era of human kind. He knows the reasons, the facts and figures. But with all his knowledge, he can never understand the why. 

**Xanadu**

To each his own road to heaven. No matter the attributes, the ornaments no matter the features, or paraphernalia. Each has his own road, but the heaven is the same. Peace. Simply peace. 

**Yearn**

It's at the core of him. A base buried so deep he doesn't even know it's there. He goes on his daily existence, striving for the needs he knows. And so he goes, never understanding the empty place in his stomach, the corner of his heart that does not rejoice. It is a never-ending quest, a thirst that cannot be quenched without the knowledge of the craving. 

**Zealot**

Fanatic. Aficionado. The subject doesn't matter. At any one point in his life, he has been fascinated by one thing or another. Fairy stories and their hidden meanings, King Henry the II and Eleanor of Aquatine. Special effects of movies, species of roses. Dinosaurs, politics, art history, gourmet cooking. Each gets his full attention until he's wrung it dry of every last trickle of knowledge. And then he moves on. 


End file.
